When Realization Hit
by deansass
Summary: A stanford-era fic. While Dean searches for John, he is attacked, unprepared, by a spirit. The spirit wants Dean to understand many things he is oblivious to. How will Dean cope alone? Hurt!Dean
1. Chapter 1

Exactly two weeks ago, Dean had awoken to an empty motel room. There was no sign of his father anywhere; Dean had checked the bathroom, the car, and even walked to the closest bars and grocery stores. No John Winchester.

What had worried him the most, however, was the fact that all of John's belongings had been missing as well. As was John's truck. Sadly, as much as Dean wished to deny it, he couldn't. John had left him without a message.

Had it been for a hunt, John would have most likely dragged Dean along with him, and if not, he would have left Dean a note like he had done many times in their childhood. John never left his kids without leaving some kind of message.

Except for one time, that is.

It had happened when Dean was only twelve. John had needed to go on a hunt, so he dragged Bobby along with him, leaving Dean behind with Sam in Bobby's house. Unfortunately, the hunt did not go as planned, and Bobby was taken to the hospital (although both he and John had insisted he was fine). When John went home to grab some supplies, he found Dean home alone, no Sammy in sight. Dean was asleep.

So John went back to the hospital, and when Bobby was admitted, they returned home hoping to find Sam. Sam was safely tucked into his bed while Dean was rubbing his sleepy eyes and watching TV. After making sure Sam was safe, John left without a word. He did not come back for three weeks.

The point was, Dean thought, that John would never leave him like this unless Dean had done something wrong. And although he felt guilty, something kept telling him that he shouldn't be, because he had not done anything wrong since Sam left to Stanford. He'd helped John very much, doing a great job on all his hunts.

So now, after two weeks of waiting, Dean decided it may be time he began looking for his father. Outside the town, that is. Dean had searched all town-pubs, bars, stores and asked everyone when they'd last seen John. No one could help him.

The fact that John was not answering his cell phone either drove Dean insane. If he'd done something so wrong, couldn't John at least tell him? Perhaps even give him a second chance so he wouldn't repeat the same mistake again?

Sighing, Dean pulled out his phone again. As expected, he reached voice mail. "Hey, Dad, it's me. You know, giving me some kind of lead on where you are would be pretty helpful right now. At least tell me what I did wrong." He breathed out, shaking his head softly. Tucking his phone away again, he climbed into the impala and began driving to the town North of them.

**Two Days Later**

"So, you excited for tonight?" Jaden asked.

Sam smiled. "Yeah, actually. I've never been to many school dances before. Jess said it was going to be awesome."

Jaden nodded. "You bet! So how are things going on with you and Jess? You guys thinking about declaring your love any time soon?" He asked teasingly, grinning. When Sam blushed, he added, "Loverboy got himself a beautiful girlfriend."

"We're not dating yet." Sam clarified. "I mean, we are going to the dance together tonight, but we're not together together." He mumbled. "Jess is a great girl. I want to take things slowly with her, make sure she actually loves me."

Snorting, Jaden responded, "I think the entire college knows that she's head over heels for you, Winchester."

Dean had been driving in the impala for six hours. The first two towns he'd dropped by had shown absolutely no sign of his father, which told him he should head back in the opposite direction. The next town was still another two-hour drive from him. He nodded his head along with the music.

Suddenly, however, the music turned off. Dean furrowed his eyebrows, tapping on the radio several times. The impala's radio couldn't have possibly stopped working; not now, not after all those years, and certainly not this suddenly. Then, as Dean sighed in irritation, the impala came to an abrupt halt.

"Sonuvabitch..." He muttered, trying to turn on the engine again. Nothing. He climbed out of the car, inspecting it. "I have no time for this right now." He told himself, running a hand through his hair. "Why would you stop working _now_, of all times!"

In the state he was under, Dean was unable to notice little things he would have normally had no trouble seeing. Being this distressed, and having not eaten a thing for at least eight hours now (no money, since John hadn't left him any and he'd had no time to hustle), Dean could be excused.

He looked around, waiting for a car to come by so he could ask for some help of any sort. All he saw around him, however, was a cemetery. A cemetery, of all things? Rubbing his temples, Dean let out a shaky breath. Of course. He was Dean Winchester; nothing would be easy for him. How could he possibly have expected to drive around country, looking for his father who could be anywhere in the world, without getting in the way of some kind of hunt?

"You know what, let's just get this over with." He yelled out, moving to the trunk of the impala to pull out a rock salt gun. He groaned in realization when he noticed that he had no background information on this ghost––or spirit–––whatsoever. He did not know the name, the gender, the background, or where the grave was.

In other words, this was as unprepared for a hunt as he had ever been.

John would be so proud.

Loading the gun, Dean shook his head, waiting for the ghost to appear. He needed to get out of here as soon as possible to be able to research properly. Damnit, how he hated those hunts where the ghost stopped their cars from functioning.

As he leaned against the trunk, he felt a shudder creeping up his spine. Turning around, he was met by an unusual sight. Dean had seen many spirits in his lifetime, but nothing like this. The spirit had no arms or legs––no elbows, no knees... he was basically a flying block. Taking a deep breath, Dean shot at him with rock salt, watching as he quickly dispersed. When the ghost dispersed, the car turned on again. Dean ran to the door, to drive away before the spirit came back, but it appeared that the spirit was stronger than he expected.

How fascinating.

The impala door locked, making Dean unable to get inside. He looked up to see the spirit standing on the other side of the impala. Quickly pulling up his gun, he aimed at him again. However, with a flick of his hand, the gun flew out of Dean's grasp and fell several feet away from where he stood.

"Son of a bitch." Dean gritted, gasping when the spirit was abruptly only several inches away from him. "Who are you?" He asked.

"I am Jordan Willigan." The spirit's voice flooded his mind, although its mouth didn't move. "You are like me. So much like me." He said.

"Yeah? Well, I'm not the one with missing limbs and a creepy voice." Dean replied easily, his sarcasm taking the better of him. "And your face, dude. It's fugly."

Dean felt himself being pushed back, his breath stopping short when his back collided with the cemetery fence. He sat up, spitting the blood that had erupted in mouth. Shaking his head slowly, he began to stand up again, looking at the spirit who was wide eyed and clearly angered.

"No, but I was once healthy. I once had all my arms and legs, and my face was handsome and I––I was perfect." The spirit's voice said again. "But they all gave me up. They left me, abandoned me. And I can feel it in you too. I can see it as I skim through your thoughts and memories. They left you behind, uncaring as to what happens to you. You are like me."

His jaw clenching, Dean shook his head. "You misunderstand my memories, then. I don't know what you're talking about."

Jordan shook his head sadly. "I went through that phase as well, Dean. Denial. I wanted to deny what had actually happened. I wanted to believe that they had done the best for me and never intended to hurt me." He sighed. "I was a soldier in WW1. I never wanted to go. My parents told me I had to, for their sake. So I went. They never responded to my letters. They left me there, in the war, all alone. Then my comrades sent me out to the trenches. The trenches are frightening, you know that? Very frightening. I was scared. But the life of one soldier then didn't matter. You had to be sent out to do whatever it was you were told. Obeying orders, as though your life meant nothing. Always thinking about the greater good, isn't that right? I was sent out to the trenches."

Dean flinched as he heard the spirit. This seemed to give the spirit a clue that Dean could truly relate to him. "In all those years I've been here, I never haunted a person. No one. Not even my family, Dean. I am a good spirit." He clarified. "But now, when I sensed that I finally found someone like me, I knew I could talk to you. I knew I could warn you, make you understand. Your father left you, much like mine did. Your soul doesn't matter to him––never are nothing but soldiers, Dean. You and I are soldiers, sent to save people who would never know we exist or appreciate what we did. I am here to warn you, Dean. Living in denial will not help you. The moment will come when you realize that they left you, forever, and will never come back." He shook his head. "My parents never even attended my burial. I doubt your family would even know of your death."

"No, you're wrong." Dean ground out. The spirit was just messing with him, using his weakest thoughts against him. "You're not a soldier. You're playing with my mind to make me weaker. I've faced enough sons of bitches like you to know."

The spirit shrugged. "I am not doing this for me, Dean. I am doing this for you." He scowled more, and wind began rushing at Dean. "But if you don't want to believe me, I will make you. You must understand. Living in denial will never get you anywhere. Look at me. I only knew the truth when it was too late."

Dean blinked rapidly against the wind. "And what would you have done had you realized it earlier?"

"I would have disagreed to go to the war!" Jordan yelled, his voice a high screech in Dean's ear. "I would have left them, instead of them leaving me! I would have kept my dignity, I would have kept my life!"

"Well, I wouldn't have done that." Dean gritted. "I'd rather they leave me behind than I leave them and regret it forever."

"You're an idiot. You are a dumb, stupid, idiot. Can't you see? They already left you. Your father is never coming back, you know why? Because no matter how hard you try, you are not good enough. Even after I fought at war, my daddy was never proud of me. He always saw it as my duty, that I was expected to do it." The spirit hissed. "And your brother. Do you think he will ever come back? He found his life. He never regretted leaving you behind."

Dean closed his eyes, clenching his fists as he tried to ignore the spirit. It had not helped that those thoughts had been on Dean's mind since Sam had left to Stanford, and had multiplied when John left too.

"I was in the trenches." Jordan's voice went back to a whisper. "I was in the trenches when a bomb blew up. It was in that very moment, Dean, that I realized had my parents been there with me, they would have walked away without a glance back. It was then that I realized my death meant nothing to everyone. After all, I was just a little soldier in a game. Much like you are."

"I'm not a controlled soldier." Dean argued weakly. "I do this because I want to. I do it because I am good at it."

"So you would rather be here, this second, being hunted by a spirit, than be sitting at home with a girlfriend, eating pie for dessert, while your parents sat in their own homes and Sam was at college, calling every once in a while? You're saying you would choose this life over a normal life?" Jordan challenged.

"Yes, damnit. Yes." Dean began pushing himself up again, supporting himself with the fence. "Unlike you, I accept the life I am born into and I try my best. I may have negative thoughts, but I'd never hold grudges against my own family."

The spirit shook his head again. "Then you must understand it the harsh way. You will understand that you are being very wrong thinking you should love them no matter what. I went through that, and I got nothing in return."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows when Jordan disappeared from his sight. He felt a blow to his head, letting out a soft hiss as it collided with the ground. Then, he was lifted up again, and before he could make out what was happening, he hit the impala, hearing his wrist crack in the process. Biting his lip, he tried to hold his broken wrist with his other hand, but was thrown back against a fence again. Then, he was unable to stop the cry of pain that escaped his lips when he felt soaring pain erupt in his right thigh. He looked down to find a long, sharp piece of metal embedded into it. Looking away, he bit down on his lip to keep from whimpering.

Trying to move was a very bad idea, and Dean was aware of that. However, when he shifted less than inch to catch his breath, more pain was sent through his body, making his heart race. He breathed out, a sob forming as he no longer fought to let it out. "Where did you go, you son of a bitch!" He yelled out, his voice shaking. "Sonuvabitch." He spat, his eyes burning. He wouldn't cry. It was an injury. Had his father been there, he would have told him not to cry as he tried to pull out the damn pole.

But John was not here. Dean was alone, and if he cried, no one would tell him to suck it up and quit crying. In fact, no one would pull the metal pole out of his damn leg as it kept throbbing in pain, blood soaking through his pants and puddling around the ground below it.

"I was in the trenches." He then heard. "And when the bomb came, it hit me with realization."

And then, the impala's engine turned on again, metallica playing loudly as Dean punched the ground angrily, unable to stop the tear that dropped down his cheek. What had he ever done to this spirit?

Why in hell could he not have a peaceful day?

––––––

"Here, try this punch!" Jess exclaimed, handing Sam a glass. "It's the best one I've tried so far!"

Sam grinned, taking the punch. He hadn't drank enough alcohol to be drunk, but he was beginning to feel the tingle as his senses began getting distant. "Thanks, Jess. That dance was amazing. I didn't know you could dance!"

Jessica laughed. "You need some serious training, too."

Sam gulped awkwardly at her sentence, John's voice repeating it in his head. Training. "I think I've had enough training as it is." He said, laughing it off. "Tonight, I mean. Maybe I just wasn't born to be a dancer."

Jessica nodded as she went off to chat to a friend of hers. "I'll be right back." She said, giving him a peck on the lips. Sam grinned stupidly, relaxing back in his chair. So the parties weren't anywhere as bad as Dean and John had made them sound. In fact, they were quite fascinating.

He got up, heading to the bathroom, when his cell phone rang. Probably Jessica, he thought, answering right away. "Hey, Jess. Is anything wrong?"

When the only thing he got in response was shallow breathing, he looked around the place worriedly, quickly spotting Jess. She was laughing. Turning his attention back to the phone, he furrowed his eyebrows. "Hello? What's wrong?"

"Sam."

It was Dean. Sam clenched his fists, tightening his grip around the phone. "Dean."

"Sam, I––I need your help." Dean's voice was weak. Sam closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly as Dean continued to breathe quickly.

"Listen, Dean. I told you. I'm out of this hunter business. Where is Dad? I thought you were staying with him so you two could hunt together. Just call him. I'm at a party now, Dean. A party. I finally got to go to a proper party! I'm not leaving it. I'm finally getting a girlfriend, Dean. I'm getting a normal life. Please, Dean. Leave me out of hunting. Call Bobby if you need help." He spat, feeling guilty as soon as the words left his mouth. However, he needed to tell Dean. Now was not the time he went and helped with a hunt!

"Sam..." Dean breathed out.

Worry filled Sam's chest as Dean continued to breathe out his name. Had Dean not heard him? "Dean, please. I can't do this."

He hung up.

–––––

When Sam hung up, Dean was barely conscious. He was sure he had a concussion, along with his broken wrist, but he must have bled a lot, because he was getting more lightheaded by the second. So was this it? Was he going to die, bleeding out beside a cemetery?

Then he heard some muffled voices in the distance, words he couldn't really make out. "Yes... near cemetery... visiting our grandpa... ambulance... please... bleeding out..."

He felt his head loll back as unconsciousness took over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings**: Gore  
**Note**: enjoy :) please leave me feedback! It may or may not save Dean's life depending on whether or not you review ;)

* * *

"He's waking."

A groan found its way through Dean's lips, although his head felt hazy and heavy. If asked, he wouldn't be able to describe what he felt. Being half-conscious, in pain and dizzy, and very disoriented made it hard for him to even think. He couldn't stop the whimpers of pain.

The haziness began to settle slowly, and he tried to focus on the voices around him. He supposed they were talking, but no words actually formed in his mind. Letters. He heard some letters thrown about, but no actual words.

What were they saying?

There were multiple voices; some high pitched, some deep. Some were frantic, and others were calm. Dean could make out that much, but no words. Pain pulled at him from below, down to his legs. No, it was not his legs. He tried to think, to focus on where the pain was coming from.

Right side. Okay. Pain was coming from his right side. It kept pulling at him. A strange feeling, indeed. Dean had been hurt many times; he'd broken his arms and legs, he'd gotten gashes and nasty cuts, but this was different. It was a new feeling that he did not want to welcome yet.

The strangest part was that, with the pulling, came very little pain. He just felt the urge to reach down and rub circles on his thigh, to ease the muscles. But he'd pulled a muscle before. And this was, again, just different.

Shifting his attention back to the voices, he tried to focus again. The haziness had lessened greatly, and he was starting to feel his body as a whole again. He tried to move his fingers, which twitched lightly. His eyelids were too heavy. He couldn't even bring them up a millimetre.

"D..." He heard. A letter. The letter D. He tried to focus more. "Dee..." Just D. He tried to move his hands again, feeling helpless. He let out a moan, angry for not being able to focus.

Focus, Dean. He told himself. Your dad would be angry if you are on a hunt. John doesn't like it when you slack off. You have to push yourself.

Focus.

"Dean."

His name made it through his ears and into his mind, finally putting together an entire word. The voice was unfamiliar, however. He could do this. He heard one word, he could hear the rest. He just needed to focus.

"Dean, open your eyes."

Open your eyes? He tried. Eyelids were too heavy, though. Maybe someone had glued his eyes shut. Yet as the voice kept prodding at him, Dean pushed himself. Dad wants you to open your eyes, Dean. He told himself. Open the damn eyes.

"There you are." The voice said. Dean's eyes barely opened-less than centimetre, to be honest-but the voice was being encouraging. "The light might hurt your eyes, so take it easy. Don't open them too quick."

As if he could. Millimetre by millimetre, Dean finally managed to get his eyes open. However, he immediately flinched, eyes closing shut right away. The light was so strong, dammit. Neon light. He opened his mouth, breathing heavily.

His senses were slowly returning to him. His mouth felt dry, lips chapped. He tried to clear his throat, but it hurt. It was too dry. Then the smell came-the smell of rubber, medicine, mouthwash, and... That weird, hospital smell.

He'd be damned.

"Dean, we lessened the lights. Open your eyes again."

Dean complied, forcing himself to keep his eyes open. They burned, and they were glassy and reddening. The doctor, as Dean figured the voice was, nodded at someone. "His eyes are not diluted. That's good." He turned to Dean again. "You must be thirsty."

Unable to nod or speak, Dean silently thought that yes, he was. He was starving. His throat was scratching from the dryness. The doctor brought an ice cube to his lips, nodding at Dean. "This will help. Water may be too strong for you right now." Dean opened his lips slowly, the effort burning in his jaw. The ice cube quickly melted in his mouth, but he was grateful for it as it lessened the dryness in his throat. The doctor out another one for him questioningly, and Dean accepted it.

"Alright. I think we should let him get back to sleep. When he wakes again, let me know." He nodded at Dean before leaving the room. Dean closed his eyes easily and let the darkness consume him again.

* * *

The next time he woke, it was easier. The strange tugging feeling from his thigh was still there, though. And a new pain was introduced to him, coming from his left wrist. That feeling, however, he understood. It was broken.

Opening his eyes was much easier, and his throat felt a lot less dry. He took the time to let his eyes adjust to the light in the room before he looked around. His neck felt cramped, probably because he hadn't moved it in a day or two. He stretched it lightly, looking sideways.

A nurse walked in, and was clearly startled when his eyes met Dean's. "You're awake." He noted. "Really awake. Been awake long?" He asked.

Dean shook his head lightly. The nurse poured some water into a plastic cup and placed it on Dean's bedside table. "The doctor thinks you're ready for regular water now. We've been giving you ice cubes when you woke up on and off. Here, let me help you sit up." He adjusted the bed, bringing it up slightly. He placed the cup at Dean's lip, satisfied when Dean easily gulped it down.

"I'll get the doctor. Don't fall asleep." The nurse said, smiling lightly.

Dean tried to move his arm. He slowly managed to get his right arm across and over his torso, letting out a breath from the effort it took. The headache had subsided slightly, but it was still there. Probably from the neon lights, Dean thought.

He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. Had it been a dream, Sam's words? Had he really hung up on Dean? Dean wasn't sure. It may have just been a nightmare. Hen he remembered the ghost-its words, about how Dean would be abandoned by John and Sam. He'd thought the ghost was lying, but... It must have been a nightmare, caused by the spirit's words. Sam would not hang up on him.

His leg.

His breathing sped up involuntarily as he remembered. The ghost had hit him, broken his wrist. It'd put a metal pole through his damn thigh. He moved his arms again, although pain erupted in his muscles, trying to push himself up by his elbows. He needed to get the bedsheets off of himself, to see his leg. He had lost a lot of blood.

Which meant that Sam's phone call wasn't a dream.

His breath hitched again as a sob escaped his throat. His arms were hurting, as was his back. It felt as though his muscles hadn't been moved in decades. Suddenly, his elbows have out and he fell back onto the bed with a loud thump.

"Dean, calm down."

It was his doctor. Dean looked at him, his breathing still uneven as he silently begged for answers. The doctor walked up to him, standing by his bed and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Dean, you need to calm yourself. Lay back." When Dean continued to breathe rapidly, the doctor spoke with an order. "Dean, calm down. You need to calm down."

Closing his eyes, Dean slowly forced himself to calm down. Don't think about Sam, or John, or the ghost, or your life. Think about the beer, the girls, the bars. Come on, Dean. Calm it down.

"That's better." His doctor said, smiling gently. "Now, tell me, Dean. Do you remember what happened?"

Dean looked at him, his breathing unevening once more. The doctor raised his eyebrows. "Dean, focus. I assume you remember, then? You need to calm, please. This will only make it worse for you."

Dean nodded slowly, gulping loudly. The doctor crossed his arms. "I'm doctor Secksy, and I've been assigned your case. You came in pretty battered up, if I must say so myself. Concussion, broken wrist, bloody nose, and... Of course, your leg." He took in a breath. "Anyways, I'm really glad you're finally awake. It's been three, almost four, months since you came in."

Dr. Secksy nodded at Dean's gasp. "Yes, I bet it doesn't feel like it was that long for you. You were in an induced coma for several weeks. We didn't want you to wake up. You were in a very bad condition, and we did not want to risk you waking up in the midst of it. When you were finally settled, you began waking up. I'm not sure whether you remember all of it, but you've been on and off for at least two months now. You'd wake up every day, but you were never awake enough."

Dean looked at his hands, not knowing how to respond. He did remember some snippets of talking, voices, being moved, tubes shoved down his nose and throat, but nothing clear.

"Good news, though. You finally get to eat real food. We had to feed you through tubes for the past while." Dr. Secksy said, smiling. Dean looked up at him again, and then to his leg. The question was silent, but it was obvious.

"I'd rather we spoke about your leg later. For now, I wanted to see how you were coping. I'll ask a nurse to bring you some food. Your muscles will need some therapy. Because you haven't moved them much." He explained. "Oh, and Dean, I need a contact number for you. Your phone was found beside you, but it was crushed. Someone must have thrown it onto the ground harshly. So, I need a contact number. Your parents, siblings, spouse or live interests would be best. Can you provide me a number or two?"

Dean didn't open his mouth. He looked away, out the far window. Dr. Secksy sighed, grabbing a piece of paper and a pen. He handed them to Dean. "Any number you can think of, Dean."

Dean shook his head.

Dr Secksy raised an eyebrow. "If there are any issues, then please put them aside. I need you to cooperate with me, Dean. Four months is a long time, and you're awake enough to help me out now."

Dean wasn't one to cry. He never was, he never would be. But sometimes he could not help it, and today was one of those times. A lump formed in his throat as his nose began to tickle, eyes burning. He turned away from the doctor, trying to hide the way his lips trembled. "I'm sorry." He whispered, his voice hoarse. "I can't."

"Well, at least you've spoken." Dr Secksy sounded relieved. "So please, Dean. Just provide me with a number. If you want, I can call them in front of you, too. Just give me a number."

Wiping at his eyes, Dean straightened up again. God damnit, he wasn't weak. He wasn't stupid. So why was he acting like it? Suck it up, Winchester. Just like you did many times already. "Alright." He said, grabbing the pen with his shaking hands. "In front of me. Call in front of me."

He scribbled down John's number, then Sam's. Something tugged at his heart at the thought of calling Sam. As he handed Dr Secksy the numbers, he prayed, from all his heart, that John would pick up so the doctor wouldn't have to call Sam. That way, John would come, get him out of the hospital, and in his unique way of therapy, help Dean back into hunting again. He didn't need Sam fussing over him.

But would Sam fuss over him? Maybe Sam will laugh at the doctor, say "Tell him that I told him so! That's what he gets for hunting!", or maybe he'd thank God he hadn't joined Dean on the hunt and stayed at the party with his girlfriend.

If had been four months. Sam must be at his summer holiday right now. If Dean was right, Sam would have just finished his finals about a week ago, give or take.

"The first number doesn't answer." Dr Secksy told him. He dialled the second number, and waited.

Of course, Dean thought. He should learn. It was his luck, wasn't it? Praying for something meant it most likely was not going to happen.

"Hello, this is Dr Secksy." Dr Secksy said, smiling at Dean. "No, it is not a joke. Sam Winchester, is it?" He read the name Dean wrote beside the number. "I am calling you for something concerning Dean Winchester. Do you know who I speak of?"

Dean looked away, wishing he hadn't asked the doctor to make this phone call in front of him. Idiot, Winchester. Idiot.

"He has finally woken, so I'd say that yes, he is alright, for the most part. He has a broken wrist and several gashes." Dr Secksy explained. Dean noticed that he left out the topic of his leg. "I was calling to check whether you could come in or not. Dean cannot be admitted from the hospital until someone has come. Finals. I see. In eight days? Sounds reasonable. St Mary's Hospital, California (I don't know if this exists, I made it up). Alright. Thank you, Sam. Yes, I will call back again."

"Well?" Dean asked, clenching his jaw. He was beginning to get a headache again and he felt his energy draining. He'd need sleep soon.

"He has finals. He will be here in eight days." Dr Secksy said. "I'll have a nurse bring you food, then you can rest. See you later, Dean."

Dean rested his head back against the pillow, wanting nothing but to sleep again.

* * *

Two days later, Dean was still insisting to be told about his leg. The doctors' behaviour was, if anything, only worrying him more.

Dr Secksy finally agreed to talk to Dean about it.

"Dean, this is serious." He began. "You have to promise me you're ready enough, emotionally, for it."

"I promise."

"The pole was embedded pretty deeply into your leg. You're still on an anesthetic, so you shouldn't be feeling either of your legs, am I correct?" When Dean nodded, he continued. "We had to get it out. You'd lost a huge amount of blood because of it. However, the pole was thick, and it was embedded with a lot of strength. You're pretty muscular, I think, but the pole managed to get through."

Dean inhaled slowly, feeling his heartbeat rise. Dr Secksy shook his head sadly. "It hit the bone, Dean. Damaging the bone is a very bad thing. We tried our best to help your bone, as it was pretty shattered, but it got too bad when an infection began spreading in your leg. I'm sorry, Dean. We really tried our best. It took us several days to decide on the best solution, but when the infection came, we all agreed it was best to... Get rid of it." He said finally, breathing out.

Dean was silent for several minutes.

"You're joking." Dean said, pushing himself to sit up. "You don't understand. This can't happen to me. My whole life relies on my job, and I can't do it without my leg. You can't be right. I can't get anything done like this. I don't-no, no..."

He pulled off the bedsheets. Bile pushed up his throat when he saw nothing but a stump right above where he supposed his knee was meant to be.

"No, no," he kept whispering in between soft sobs. How was he supposed to hunt now? His father would disown him. He would be of no use to anyone now. "You don't understand." He kept telling the doctor angrily, who only looked at him sadly. "I'd rather die."

"No, Dean." Dr Secksy interrupted. "No. You have lost your leg, but your life is more important. Just because you lost your leg does not mean you lost your life. There are many things you can do, and that we can help you do, to-"

"You really don't understand. It is worse than losing my life." Dean spat, turning away from his leg. From where his leg was supposed to be, anyways. This was just a nightmare. Dean could barely breathe as he kept cursing angrily. "Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch!"

John would be so mad at him for letting this happen in the first place.

The spirit's words suddenly echoed in his memory. "I was in the trenches when a bomb blew up. It was in that very moment, Dean, that I realized had my parents been there with me, they would have walked away without a glance back."

It was in that very moment that he realised they didn't need him anymore. That he was of no use.

And Dean was the same.

"Don't tell Sam." He told the doctor. "Don't tell him. In fact, call him and tell him Dean left the hospital. I don't want him to come here. I don't want anyone to come here."

"This is not the right way to do anything, Dean." Dr Secksy said patiently. He knew Dean was in a slight shock. "You need your brother."

"No. Tell him not to come." Dean hissed at the doctor. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to see him like this. Disabled, unable to move alone or do anything on his own. He was always the one to help and protect Sam. He couldn't bear the thought of Sam having to look after him.

Especially not when Sam hated him, and had seen him as a burden even when Dean was perfectly healthy.

"Alright, Dean, just calm down. Please." Dr Secksy sounded urgent, and Dean realised he was breathing really loudly. "I will tell him not to come. Just rest."

Dean's breaths slowly turned into wheezing, and Dr Secksy called for nurses, who came in stumbling and injected a needle into Dean's arm.

He soon fell into oblivion.

* * *

"It's nothing, Jess. I'm just worried for Dean." Sam answered.

"Wells if it was serious, the doctor would have told you. He would have asked you to come immediately, too. But you said he told you it was just a broken wrist and several gashes." Jessica argued. "Sam, you need to study. Your last exam is tomorrow, then you can go visit him."

Sam shook his head. "I know Dean. If that was the case, he would have left the hospital himself. Dean would never stay in the hospital willingly and wait for someone to come take him. The doctor also said that Dean 'finally' woke up. God, Jess! Why would he say that if Dean was alright?"

"Maybe he lost a lot of blood to the gashes?"

"Dean wouldn't even go to a hospital. He'd rathe take care of those injuries alone. And if he did, where's Dad? Why didn't Dad call me?" Sam tapped his pen angrily on his notebook. He was going to go insane.

Jessica shook her head. "Sam. Get your exam over with, then go fulfil your heart's desire and visit Dean. You'll see that he's alright, I promise you. Stop worrying yourself." She said, kissing him lightly. "Please, baby."

Sam closed his eyes, nodding. "I'm leaving right after my exam tomorrow."

* * *

**Sooo did you guys like it? Evil, I know. Please tell me what you think! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

A/**N: thanks for the follows, favs & reviews :) please drop by some more reviews! My mum had surgery a week ago & we are still in the hospital. I decided, hey, nothing better than to write a hospital fic in a hospital! So hopefully this will be realistic because I've volunteered with nurses before & we've been around nurses all week. Enjoy!**

**Warning: Angst. Emotional angst.**

* * *

As soon as Sam finished his exam, he unlocked his phone and checked his missed calls. He'd received two calls from the hospital during his exam, and he hadn't been able to pick up. Quickly, he dialled back the hospital number, entering Dr Secksy's extension number.

"Hello, Nurse Carrie speaking from Dr Secksy's clinic." The nurse answered. "How may I help you?"

Sam bit his lip nervously as he made his way back to residence as quickly as he could. "I had two missed calls from your office, but you hadn't left me any voice mails. I was just worried. Has anything new happened to Dean?"

"You must be Sam Winchester." Carrie observed. "Yes, I did call you twice. Dr Secksy had asked me not to leave you any voice mails, as he'd rather I spoke with you directly. According to Dr Secksy, you were supposed to come sometime this week, am I correct?"

"Yes, yes." Sam replied. "I booked a ticket for today. I should be there in several hours at the most."

Carrie, although Sam could not see her, nodded. "Very well. It's good you called back then. Are you free? I need to speak to you about something before you come here."

Sam inhaled slowly and made his way to a bench by the sidewalk. "Yeah, I've got time. Is something wrong?"

"I'm afraid so, yes." Carrie sounded sorry. Sam closed his eyes; he knew it. He knew the doctor had hid something from him. "Dr Secksy told you that Dean had come in with several gashes and a broken wrist, am I right?"

Sam nodded. Then, remembering she couldn't see, he rasped, "Yes."

"Dean's gashes had been severe, but we took good care of them. His wrist is also almost perfectly healed now, since it's been four months." Carrie explained. "However, what he did not tell you was-"

"Four months?" Sam interrupted. "Four months since what?"

"Since Dean's accident." Carrie paused. "I thought you'd known, I'm sorry. Four months ago, Dean was brought into the emergency. He was in a really bad condition, and we had to put him under an induced coma for several weeks. Two months ago, he began waking up, but only recently did he finally become fully aware. Dr Secksy refused to give you the details after hearing you had finals coming up, but you must know before you come here."

Sam felt dizzy. Four months ago? Wasn't that the last time Dean had called him? Sam had felt guilty since he hung up on Dean, and was waiting for Dean to phone back, since Dean always forgave him. He'd forgotten about it, however, when Dean did not call back for a month or two. Fucking idiot. What an idiot! Dean hadn't been lying when he had told Sam he needed help. All for the sake of a party-A damned party.

"Sam? Are you with me?"

"Yeah." Sam snapped out of it, rubbing his temple warily. "What else happened?"

Carrie sighed on the other line. "There was a very thick metal pole embedded into Dean's right thigh."

Silence.

"And?" Sam prompted.

"And it had reached the bone, I'm afraid. We considered sewing the bone back into place, and give it time to heal, but an infection had spread before we could do anything. We couldn't, unfortunately, save his leg."

More silence.

"Are you trying to tell me that my brother's leg is amputated?" Sam asked, his voice rising. "Why had you not told me earlier? Does Dean know?"

Carrie was silent for a moment. "Sam, you must calm yourself. If you are this angry, you will be of no help to Dean and we will not allow you to see him. Do you understand? This is very serious. Yes, Dean does know. He found out six days ago, and he has refused to speak since. He barely eats or drinks, so he's living on an intervenus fluid intake. He is refusing to cooperate with the nurses. It's crucial he moves. The fluid can be very harmful for him if he does not move."

Sam felt his eyes sting as Carrie spoke. "I'm sorry. I'll calm down. You know, Dean has always been there for me. I won't leave him, not when he has to go through this. I promise. Can you give me the floor and room number please?"

"He's in the fourth floor, room number 213. First, however, you must let one of the nurses know that you have come. They will alert either me or Dr Secksy. We need to be with you when you go in to meet him." Carrie said. "Have a safe trip. I'm glad you could make it this soon."

Sam wanted to snort. This soon? Dean had been alone for four months. And now he lost his leg, too. But one question kept prodding at Sam: where was John? "Yeah, yeah. Thanks. See you later."

He hung up, shoving the phone down his pocket. What a dumb, stupid idiot he was. He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing the palms over his eyes to stop himself from crying. Great job, Sam. Great job.

* * *

"You must go easy on him." Dr Secksy told Sam. "The nurses and I have tried everything we could to get him to say at least one word. This really worries me, as the last time he spoke he'd said he would have rather died than lose his leg. You must let him know that losing a leg does not mean his life ends. There are many options for him, and he will heal over time. The only way he will not heal is by having a negative outlook on the situation."

Sam nodded, gulping worriedly. "I understand."

"Sam, I must repeat. Go easy on him. He's in an extremely sensitive state right now, and any word you slip out may have a very negative affect on him. You must be very careful. I cannot stress this enough. It was clear that Dean is a strong man; both physically and emotionally. But anyone who goes through something like this will have a hard time. Especially for someone like Dean, who insisted his life relied on using his legs. I can understand, considering how well built he was. He clearly used to have a job that required strength. And so, for him, losing a leg will be even harder. We do not care how long it takes for him to improve, as long as we see him improving." Dr Secksy stressed. "Alright?"

Sam nodded again, closing his eyes and inhaling slowly. "Is he awake?"

"Yes." Dr Secksy looked at Sam again before he walked down the hall to Dean's room, opening the door slowly. "Dean? I am coming in." He gestured for Sam to go inside with him.

Dean was lying on his back, pillows propped up behind him. He didn't look at the doctor when he entered the room, and instead seemed to be focused on his hand, which, to Sam, was clearly swollen.

A nurse, who had walked in behind them, walked up to Dean. "How are you doing today, Dean?" She asked, smiling. "Did you have any of your lunch? Dinner should be coming around in an hour." She looked at the food tray, shaking her head. "I take it you didn't eat anything." She shrugged helplessly to Dr Secksy.

"Dean." Dr Secksy called again, moving to stand closer to him. "We'd like to have you try and go to the washroom today, alright? Having a catheter around for too long, Dean, is very unhealthy for you. Also, this fluid is building up inside you. Not moving will not allow you to pass it down. You're very swollen, and this is not good. We don't want any fluid entering your lungs."

Dean shifted a little to his left, but did not look up. Instead, he just closed his eyes and completely ignored the doctor. Dr Secksy turned to Sam. "This is one of his better days. He's been having emotional breakdowns almost daily, and nothing puts him out of it but a sedative. He's calm now."

Sam looked away. Seeing Dean this vulnerable in itself was bad enough; hooked up to IVs, an oxygen nasal tube inserted to help him breath, and, of course, what he couldn't see from below the covers, the missing leg. He bit the inside of his lip as his breath hitched. He'd promised the doctor he'd stay calm.

"Dean?" He called out. Dean did not respond. Sam made his way over to him, sitting onto the chair to his left, where Dean was facing. Dr Secksy nodded as he and the nurse left the room.

"Dean, it's me, Sam. Sorry, I tried to come earlier, but I couldn't make it." Sam said. "How are you feeling?" A dumb question coming from a dumb brother, Winchester. "I mean, you have to eat. The doctor said it would help you."

Dean still refused to acknowledge Sam's presence. Sam leaned back in his chair crossing his arms as he looked at Dean and began to babble on, hoping Dean would respond to him. Somehow, however, he found himself fast asleep.

* * *

"Dean Winchester, stop this. You must calm yourself."

Sam awoke to the loud voices of several nurses, all hovering around his brother. His heart monitor was beeping. Sam stood up, leaning in to get a closer look. Dean looked bad.

His breathing was shallow; he was taking extremely short breaths through his mouth, breaths that clearly didn't reach down into his lungs. His eyes were extremely watered, and some tears threatened to spill from the corners. Dean was sat up on his elbows, trying to do god knows what. He looked at the nurses, almost pleading with his eyes for something.

"Dean," Sam placed his hand over Dean's, "Dean, what's wrong?"

For some awful reason, this only seemed to trouble Dean further. His breaths soon grew to sound like wheezing, and the nurses finally decided to sedate him again. Dean slumped back into bed after a while, some tears rolling down his cheeks.

Sam looked at Dean. Aside from the swelling, Dean was visibly thinner. He turned to the nurse. "Is he going to fall asleep now?"

"No, we just gave him something to calm him down. It's dangerous that we keep putting him to sleep every time he goes through this. Though, I'll tell you, this time is different. He seemed stressed like usual but I feel there's a health risk. When he calms, I'm going to have a listen to his lungs." The nurse explained. "I'll be back in around ten or fifteen minutes."

Sam nodded as the nurses left the room, one by one. He sat back in his chair and looked at Dean. "Dean, please. You're not going to improve if you stay like this. You heard them. You have to eat, and move, and drink. You can't do this to yourself."

Dean, at last, looked at Sam. But when Sam was about to smile in relief, he saw something in Dean's eyes that he did not like. Dean looked at him with a mixture of anger and... fear? Hatred? It was not something Sam liked to see in Dean's eyes. Keeping their eyes locked, he held his brother's hand again. "Like the doctor said, Dean, your life is not over because of what happened. Don't let this take over you, please. I'm going to be here. I'm not going anywhere."

But Dean wasn't listening to him. He appeared to have drowned too far into his own thoughts.

* * *

(About 20 minutes earlier)

Dean looked up at the figure of his brother on the chair beside his bed. Sam's eyes were closed, and his arms were crossed. Dean furrowed his eyebrows. Why was Sam here? Had he not asked the doctor to not bring Sam?

Those bastards. They didn't understand, did they? Sam would be ashamed of him. What would Sam tell people? I have a disabled brother? If anything, Sam had hated him when Dean was well and strong, so how would he feel now? He would despise Dean. Now that Dean could not hunt alone, Sam might feel obligated to help him. Even if not for hunts. Dean would generally have to rely on someone, and he wished it wasn't Sam.

Sam would be a lawyer one day. He would have money, a great house, a great wife and great kids. And his kids will be scared, of their Uncle Dean, who walks around with one leg (or wheels around, if he used a wheelchair). They would hate him, fear him. Kids at school would bully them: "Isn't your uncle the pirate? Maybe we should take out his eye next!"

He felt his eyes water. He always knew Sam would have a great family, and that he would barely be involved, but he'd always planned to occasionally visit, to take out Sam's kids to fun places so they'd await his next visit. He had so many activities planned for them, and now... Now he would never be able to do it.

Why couldn't the doctor understand? Losing his leg really was worse to him than losing his life. After all, he was Dean Winchester, was he not? His life was worthless. He always risked it to save other people's lives. But losing his leg? Hunting was his life, and now he'd have a difficult time hunting. And if he did not hunt, would he find a woman to love him and marry him in this state? Very unlikely. Plus, he would not be able to raise his kids like others. They would be scared to call him their father. They would shy away from him in public.

So his last option was being the uncle, but even that would not work out well.

John Winchester would be so angry.

Dean cringed. What if Sam spoke to their father? What if he'd called him and told him that his eldest was now of no use, and asked him what to do next? What if John had yelled at Sam, asking how the hell Dean was dumb enough to get himself into this situation?

His breathing was speeding up, and he was unable to catch up with it. He felt his chest begin to ache whenever he tried to breathe in. Attempting the slow breaths the doctors kept talking about-inhale from your nose, hold your breath, exhale from your mouth-he found he was unable to do it. He was not taking in any air.

Although it hurt, greatly, Dean pushed himself up to his elbows, trying to take in any breaths. The oxygen being forced into his nose only seemed to disrupt his breathing further. He could barely time his breathing with the enormous amount of oxygen being shoved down his lungs. He coughed, hard, and pressed the nurse button on the side of the bed.

Two nurses rushed in, immediately coming to help Dean. He continued to cough, as he felt it was even harder than before to take in any breath. His eyes watered again from the pain and the lack of oxygen. A third nurse came rushing in with a sedative, like usual. He did not even feel the sting as she injected it into his very swollen arm.

He closed his eyes, trying to relax back into the bed. His breathing was slowly starting to even out. When he felt his muscles relax, he tried to inhale through his nose, to time his breathing well.

A while later, he heard Sam talking. He opened his eyes groggily, looking down at his right leg beneath the covers. The way the covers dipped mid-thigh always made Dean nauseous. He looked up again, his eyes meeting Sam's. He could not place his finger on what Sam's emotions showed. Worry? Annoyance?

"I'm not going anywhere." He heard Sam say.

Maybe not right now, Sam. He thought. But you'll get bored of me eventually. And you'll be the first to leave me.

Again.

* * *

**Please please review! I tried to put so much effort into conveying the right emotions from either brother, and I wanted to stress how Dean thought and stuff. In the next chapter, there will be more action 8)**


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